


If We Could Do Anything

by brokenparable



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Danish Actor RPF, Hannibal (TV) RPF, Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Madancy, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, RPF, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Sharing Fantasies, Tagged Will/Hannibal for scenes involving the characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 16:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenparable/pseuds/brokenparable
Summary: An "accidental" kiss opens the floodgates to other desires, and Mads finds it difficult to return to their normal dynamic. Hugh is adamant that they shouldn't take things any further, but he proposes a way for them to relieve the tension without actually touching.





	If We Could Do Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This is set sometime during the filming of season two. I've discovered that I'm completely addicted to imagining different types of first time scenarios for Mads and Hugh, regardless of the utter ridiculousness of said scenarios. And as I continue my descent into hell, let me once again acknowledge that this is intended as an exercise in fun daydreaming and not as any speculation about the private lives of the actors (about whom I know absolutely nothing).

Their first kiss comes as a complete surprise to both of them. They're in the doorway of a bar that exits into an alley, stumbling not because of drunkenness but because of paralyzing laughter. They dissolve into hysterics as the door shuts behind them, Hugh wheezing and gesticulating through his mirth. The joke probably won't be all that funny in the morning, but right now it is the peak of hilarity. Although the drizzling rain dampens their skin, Mads is warm all over, saturated by the fondness flowing through him.

"You are wonderful," he says earnestly, gripping Hugh by the shoulders and planting a sloppy, affectionate kiss right in the middle of his forehead. But Mads doesn't stop there—he finds he _can't_ stop there. Before he realizes what he's doing, that vibrant, happy feeling is swelling in his ribcage, and he's pressing a kiss to the hollow of Hugh's cheekbone, another to the side of his nose, another on the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw.

Mads starts to pull away just as Hugh tilts his head, and suddenly their lips meet. Their laughter stops abruptly, and there's a long moment in which they stand completely frozen and silent, barely touching. Mads feels a cold drop of rain splat onto his cheek, and it jolts him back to life—he wants this, he realizes. That's so obvious to him now. He leans closer and gently pulls Hugh's bottom lip between his own, finding it soft and pliant as a mere brush of mouths morphs into a genuine kiss. Hugh makes the tiniest rumbling hum before he begins to respond, palpably shifting from a recipient to a participant.

Curious, careful exploration escalates to something heated and urgent in seconds, Hugh's tongue sliding past Mads's lips, arms winding around his back. Hugh tastes of the mints he picked up while paying the bar tab, and he's kissing Mads like he means it. Fuelled by adrenaline, Mads presses his thigh between Hugh's legs, moving it just enough to make Hugh's mouth go slack with unexpected pleasure. He's already getting hard, and the proof of that arousal makes Mads feel light-headed and powerful.

It all ends as quickly as it started, with Hugh staggering backward and cursing. He turns away, slamming his palm against the wall. " _Fuck_."

Only his profile is visible from this angle, but he looks panicked, his expression blank and his body almost vibrating with conflicting emotions. Mads goes to touch him, hoping to soothe, but Hugh flinches. 

He takes a deep breath. Then another. Finally, he turns to face Mads, his lips swollen and reddened from the fervency of the kiss. "Shit. I'm sorry, that was..."

"Inevitable, no?"

Hugh looks up sharply. "What?"

Mads changes tack and offers a placating half-smile. He knows very well that in spite of Hugh's impressive academic pedigree and erudite expressiveness, he has a complex internal network of highly efficient defenses. 

"Ah, don't give it another thought," Mads says, waving one hand dismissively and using the other to dig into the pocket of his jeans for his cigarettes. "Beer, exhaustion... yeah, forget about it."

Hugh flashes him a strained attempt at a grin, looking faintly nauseated, and they make stilted small talk until Hugh's requested car arrives. He gets in without looking back, and Mads extinguishes his cigarette under the toe of his shoe.

****

By the time they show up on set, Hugh has a mask of normality firmly in place. If Mads didn't know better, he would guess that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Still, in spite of their clumsy attempts to backtrack in the moments after the kiss, he finds it impossible to stop replaying it in his memory. 

Days turn into weeks, and still they don't outwardly acknowledge what happened. For now, it's easier to interact as Hannibal and Will, submerging themselves in a dynamic where deep feeling and complicated intimacy is not only permissible but expected. Mads has a sense of being protected by the costume, insulated by the shell of his character. But something has changed—the electric chemistry that zings back and forth has a new kind of intensity, and Mads knows it isn't all coming from the script. It is as exhausting as it is exhilarating.

"You fantasize about killing me," he says as Hannibal, who is once again gaining profound satisfaction from goading Will into verbalizing his violent urges.

"Yes."

"Tell me, how would you do it?"

"With my hands," Hugh-as-Will says, his tone so seductively sinister that Mads forgets his next line and has to ask to start from the beginning of the scene. The fluttering in his gut and the thump of his pulse are responses that belong to him, not Hannibal.

When he goes to bed that night, he comes with Hugh's name on his lips, reimagining their kiss with a different ending—one in which Hugh wraps a skillful hand around them both and doesn't stop until they're gasping against each other's mouths and coming all over each other's clothes.

Mads wakes three hours later in the middle of the night, blindly reaching for his buzzing phone on the nightstand. He squints at the screen and sees it's a text from Hugh. It's just one short sentence, but that's all Mads needs to tell him they're closer to being on the same page than he thought: _Can we talk about this?_

He replies immediately, suggesting a time for them to meet in his trailer on Monday, well before filming starts for the day. He's not sure exactly what he's suggesting, or what to expect from such a conversation, but he's tired of the ambiguity. Something has to change.

***

Mads is almost queasy with anticipation by the time the weekend passes. It's strange, he thinks, how affected he is. He prides himself on his easy adaptability, but after a decade of friendship, Hugh has suddenly acquired the ability to twist him into knots.

Hugh looks similarly nervous when he arrives, closing the door behind him and yet refusing to take one step further. It's the first time they've been alone since they kissed, and it is Mads who closes the gap between them. "Hi," he says, putting a hand on Hugh's arm.

Hugh's lips part. "Hello," he replies weakly, his voice quiet and strained. The tension is almost unbearable.

"I've been thinking about you," Mads whispers, reaching out with his other hand and gently rubbing his thumb across Hugh's cheek. It feels hot to the touch, the skin soft and smooth. They are sharing the same air, and he can't look away from Hugh's mouth.

He has barely finished the sentence before Hugh is crashing their lips together. It's frantic and messy, bolder than before, Hugh backing him against the wall and kissing him like he wants to eat him alive.

Hugh wrenches away with a growl of frustration, pacing over to the sofa. "Okay, no, we can't do this. This isn't what I meant when I..." he trails off, sitting down and burying his head in his hands. "We have to be reasonable," he concludes, the sound muffled. 

Part of Mads agrees with this, but he is reaching the upper limits of his restraint. He itches to pin Hugh down on the sofa, to straddle him and rip him out of his clothes, suck bruises into the pale skin of his neck. His cock twitches at the mental image.

Hugh looks up, some of his composure regained. "We only want this because it's illicit. It's forbidden, unknown."

Mads stays silent, allowing Hugh the comfort of his armchair psychology for now.

Hugh breaks eye contact, staring at the wall. "What if we just tried to make it somehow _concrete_ , so we could dismiss it instead of leaving it as some sort of idealized notion."

"What's your suggestion?"

"Let's put it all out there—say everything that's been going through our heads. Demystify it, so it's no longer appealing."

There's a pause in which Mads reflects on the fact that this sounds an awful lot like a lofty excuse for dirty talk. However, he's hardly going to point this out if Hugh is willing to start disclosing lots of explicit fantasies.

"As good an idea as any," Mads lies.

"Okay," Hugh looks up again, curiosity and hunger sharpening his gaze. His pupils are enormous. "You said you were thinking about me. What is it that you think about?"

"Everything," Mads says honestly. "Your body underneath mine. What you would sound like when you're losing yourself."

"Do you think about fucking me?" Hugh shifts in his seat. He's visibly turned on, his cock a thick line in his trousers, and Mads aches to touch him.

"Yeah. I do."

"How would you do it?" Hugh asks.

Mads instantly recognizes the scripted phrasing, thinks of the catharsis to be found in voicing the desires that one can't—or won't—satisfy. "I'd have you on your hands and knees."

Hugh's breath shudders out unevenly as he presses the heel of his hand against his erection. It seems automatic, instinctive—like he has no choice but to do it. "Would you be rough with me? Grab my hips, pull my hair?"

A wave of desire leaves Mads feeling physically weak. "If you'd like it," he manages.

Hugh closes his eyes for a second. " _God_ , I want you so much," he says faintly, his hips shifting as he responds to the tease of his own touch.

"Show me," Mads says, the words sounding hoarse. There's a loaded silence and he worries that this has all gone a step too far, but then Hugh is pulling at his belt and undoing his fly. His underwear is distended by the hard curve of his cock. Mads stares, wishing he could feel the weight of it in his hand. "Keep going."

Hugh pushes his clothes down far enough to allow him to wrap his fingers around himself. His lip curls slightly in pleasure, his jaw clenching. His fist is loose, the strokes quick and light. Mads is hopelessly, uncomfortably aroused, swollen and pressing at his zipper.

"I imagined having you inside me last night," Hugh says, the words a hushed confession. "I came so hard." He's all lust-drunk impulsivity at this point, his usual reserve and poise falling away. His gaze is hot and desperate, the head of his cock red and shiny. Mads can't help but wonder what it would be like to run his tongue over it and lap up the pre-coming collecting there.

"Did you ride your fingers?"

Hugh doesn't speak but merely nods and swallows, the muscles in his neck tensing and relaxing. "I want to see you too," he murmurs as he touches himself, his movements becoming more erratic. "I need to know what you look like when you think of me."

Still standing and never breaking eye contact, Mads pops the top button of his jeans, pulling at his zipper. His erection tents the thin material of his boxers and protrudes from his fly, and Hugh can surely see where a spot of moisture has seeped through the front. Mads knows he should be embarrassed, should find this awkward or strange—but yet he feels utterly unashamed, high on the drug of Hugh's focused attention.

"Show me," Hugh repeats Mads's words back to him, eyes raking over his body.

Mads pushes his jeans to his thighs and shoves his underwear down, no care for the inelegance of it, taking himself in hand and almost groaning at the relief of finally getting some direct stimulation.

Hugh stares, slack-jawed, his chest juddering as he watches. "Do you wish I was the one touching you?"

"Look at what you do to me," Mads retorts. "What do you think?"

Hugh laughs, a wobbly sound mixed with a moan. He spreads his legs wider, his back arching as he thrusts up into the grip of his fist, the muscles of his forearms shifting under his skin. Mads looks down at him, and fleetingly pictures coming all over that beautiful face.

Hugh's voice wavers. "I want to taste you."

"I would let you," Mads says, partly to embellish the fantasy they're building together and partly because he's holding on to the faint hope that Hugh might just crawl over and suck his dick. "Your mouth was made for it."

Hugh slides two fingers of his left hand past his lips for a moment, hollowing his cheeks. It's a crude, obvious performance but Mads almost comes on the spot, all too easily picturing his cock in place of Hugh's fingers. He wonders if Hugh has had much practice, the twin responses of lust and jealousy flaring up at once at the thought.

"Do you wish you could fuck my mouth? You could hold my head down—make me choke on you," Hugh says recklessly, like he can read Mads's mind.

Mads can't speak, but the helpless noise he makes betrays how badly he wants exactly that.

"I can take it," Hugh continues, his cheeks flushing as he looks up through his eyelashes. He's feeding off Mads’s transparent desire. "I'd love it."

Mads feels his balls tighten, his heart racing. "You want me to come down your throat?"

"Fuck yes," Hugh pants, his mouth hanging open and his eyes heavy-lidded as the movements of his hand speed up and his body trembles convulsively. Mads catalogs it all—the bliss on Hugh's face, the high whine that catches in his throat, the sticky slickness of the come that splashes the bottom of his shirt and drips down his wrist. A few more strokes and Mads finds his own release with a low groan, mindless of the mess he's making of his clothes.

In the breathless, wobbly-legged moments that follow, he asks himself what on earth you're supposed to say after something like this. Regardless, he knows with absolute clarity that Hugh was kidding himself when he thought this would solve anything. They are, Mads thinks, at the very start of something—not the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, that's enough lechery for one day.


End file.
